Cut
by yeaka
Summary: Draco gets the Dark Mark. (Drabble, dark, slash.)


Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of its contents, and I'm not making any money off this.

Warnings: Slash, minor violence.

A/N: Prize for Writcraft on HSWW on LJ.

* * *

"Shhh," Rabastan purrs, as Draco throws his head back to lean against his uncle-in-law's shoulder. "It's _okay._" But the way he whispers it isn't at all comforting, and Draco's whole body is trembling.

He's on his knees in Rabastan's lap, in the middle of the hall, for everyone to see. His back is to Rabastan's chest, and he's shirtless and sweating, the terror wringing it out of him. The dungeons are deathly cold. There's a ring of other Death Eaters around the circle, all masked, but Draco can still tell which one is his father. He tries not to look over too much; he tries to keep his head down. He doesn't want his father to see the pain in his eyes, and he doesn't want the other Death Eaters to think that his father might have a weak son.

Still, Draco whimpers when the blade switches angles. His arm is held out in front of him, twisted uncomfortably and held in place by Rabastan. His fingers are shaking between the stronger ones that bind him. He tries to hold them as still as he can – he knows he can't mess this up - but it's a nearly impossible task, and he's failing.

The Dark Lord is bent over him, and the thin, silver blade carving into Draco's arm is dripping with blood and poison. The Dark Lord periodically whispers spells that slither all down his arm and the knife like snakes, twisting into the open wound. Draco knows it's the binding spells. But all he can see is _poison_...

On a particularly deep slice Draco gasps, jaw wide with his pain. His nose scrunches together and he grits his teeth, willing himself not to scream. He tries, tries _so hard_ not to cry, but the edges of his eyes are still prickle with tears. He can't _help it._Rabastan's free hand slips up Draco's bare chest, rubbing soothing circles. Neither Lestrange brother has ever said a comforting word to Draco in his entire life, but now Draco clings to him like a lifeline. Draco tries to shrink back into Rabastan's chest, wanting nothing more than to turn and bury his face in Rabastan's shoulder. All the pain is in front of him. But he has to be still, and let his lord carve the revolting design into his skin. It burns everywhere the blade touches, and his whole forearm is red with abuse.

"You're doing good," Rabastan whispers, quietly, so that none of the other Death Eaters can here. "Such a good boy..." His tongue snakes out to trace the shell of Draco's ear; Draco shivers and wills himself _not to move._

He almost jumps when the Dark Lord speaks, voice strange and hissing, "Yesss, A very good boy..." It's just as soft – for Draco and Rabastan's ears alone. Draco knows which Death Eater is Rodolphus, and can see him at the edge of the circle, see him desperately wanting to come closer – a step further in than the others. "...We'll have to have fun with him later, won't we, Rabastan...?"

"Of course, my lord," Rabastan happily sighs, sounding almost orgasmic with the offer. The blade is curving now, cutting circles into his flesh – Draco tries desperately not to writhe. Rabastan holds him still. Draco is panting with the effort – his face is screwed up and his normally pale skin is an angry pink all over. The pain is intoxicating – it's in every facet of his being, clawing at him from every side. He whimpers again and can't help it. Rabastan pecks at his ear, crooning, "Don't worry, Draco... it hurts now, but tonight we'll show you all the pleasure it can bring..."

When Draco cricks his eyes open the Dark Lord is grinning. That alone is terrifying. His red eyes are thin slits, watching carefully the pattern he puts into Draco, but his mouth is a twisted, dark smirk, that Draco knows doesn't at all bode well for him. The Dark Lord continues his work and lets Rabastan drone on, inordinately making Draco more and more nervous with every word.

"You haven't any idea how it feels, to be completely _owned_ by someone – someone so _powerful_, too – and to be able to please your master is the greatest feeling a soldier could have..." Rabastan's fingers close around Draco's heart, almost clawing into the skin, as he sighs too-dreamily, "To be claimed by our master... by the Dark Lord... it is the greatest honour any pureblood wizard could have..."

The knife tilts to cut the hollows out of the skull's eyes – Draco's mouth soundlessly works in a trapped, silent scream. His veins are ice and it hurts so, so much, that he just can't help it anymore – the tears begin to fall. They roll down his cheeks in thick, shameful rivers, and he tries not to snivel, but it just _hurts so badly._ The Dark Lord simply chuckles. He continues to cut without pause. When Draco manages to look down through his tears his forearm is soaked in blood. He doesn't even understand how the Dark Lord can see what he's doing – it's a sticky, black-and-red mess.

When the Dark Lord finally wrenches the blade form Draco's skin, Draco absolutely _shrieks,_ far louder than he ever meant to. He can't help it. The pain is so all-consuming that he feels like it's devouring his arm, that it'll creep up his body like a cancer, rotting every part of him. His free hand, fisted tight at his side, lifts to tentatively trace Rabastan's arm, looking for something, _anything_ to help. Rabastan holds his hand and kisses his cheek, and the Dark Lord locks his long, bony fingers around Draco forearm, locking in all the blood and magic.

He begins to murmur spells, furiously and darkly, and the magic pulses and slithers all around Draco's arm. Draco's a whimpering wreck before he knows what's happening – it seers through every cell. Rabastan holds him firmly in place when he starts trying to convulse, body just plain unable to handle it. Rabastan holds him tight and licks away his tears, whispering, _lying, "It'll be okay."_


End file.
